Caricature
by Schuyler Lola
Summary: Healing doesn't mean hiding, Don.
1. Mockingbird

_Rumour has it that I do not own NUMB3RS. That is, sadly true. I don't own NUMB3RS, or anything affiliated with it. Except the DVDs, but I doubt that means anything. This disclaimer is in effect from now until the last chapter of this._

_Much thanks to _**AceSpade**_ for helping to inspire this fic, and sending some ideas._

_This picks up pre-canon._

Chapter 1: Mockingbird

The lingering scent of wood smoke lay over the area. It was one of the few things that greeted the sombre group as they scattered over the wet grass. The black shapes broke the constancy of the carpet of green. Don swallowed, sitting in a folding chair, hoping to hide from the crowd of people that would be sure to offer their condolences, wanted or not. He wasn't sure how many heartfelt renditions of "I'm so sorry for your loss" he could take today. Maybe later. Much, much later.

Or never. Don preferred to deal with his pain alone. The idea of this entire day had made him ill this morning, and as he lived it, the feeling gotten worse.

Don inhaled the smoky air. He loved the smell of wood smoke; it was reminiscent of all those camping trips as a kid. God, he had loved the idea of sleeping outside, cooking food over a fire – all that outdoorsy stuff – even as a teenager. He had thrived on them. Now, today, of all days, he was left with the memories of all those trips. The smoke taunted his senses. He took another giant whiff of it, trying to concentrate on only the memories he associated with the smell of smoke. Summer evenings, fishing, catching fireflies, making s'mores - all that romantic, wilderness crap.

Charlie sat beside him. As much as Don wanted to pound the crap out of him for doing whatever it was he'd been doing for the last three months, he forced himself to give a smile to Charlie. "Hey, buddy," he said.

"Hey," his younger brother replied listlessly. Don cringed at his brother's tone. It displayed more raw emotion than he wanted to deal with.

Charlie. Don took a good look at his brother. Charlie looked bewildered. He kept blinking, as if he was astonished at his surroundings, wondering how he'd gotten there. As if the light was something new to him. As if everything has finally hit him – the finality of the situation was beginning to penetrate the shell Charlie had built out of his numbers, out of the unsolvable math problem. What was it called, anyway?

Don choked back a bitter and likely inappropriate laugh. He was worried about the name of some unsolvable math problem that had kept his brother in the garage for the last three months at his mother's funeral reception. Life was a funny, funny thing.

Still, he had to stick his foot in it and ask. He cleared his throat. "Charlie, what's that thing called?"

"What thing?" Charlie asked slowly. He looked straight at Don, who was now able to put a finger on the way Charlie looked. _He looked scared._ Yet he was still open Charlie, ready to share.

"You know, that thing you've been working on," Don said. Carefully.

Charlie was immediately on the defensive. "It's P versus NP. And if you want to -"

"No, Charlie, I don't, okay?" Don snapped. "I'm just showing interest in your work. You're always going on about that."

"Fine." Charlie's expression changed from the defensive back to the terrified stare.

"Charlie, I'm -" Don let it go, seeing Terry through the crowd of mourners. "I'll be right back."

He cut through the clusters of people, ending up beside Alan, who was greeting Terry warmly.

"Of course I did, Mr. Eppes," Don's partner protested politely.

"It's good to see you again, anyway," Alan pronounced.

Don led Terry away from his father. "What do you think?"

"He's doing the best he can, under the circumstances." Terry shrugged. "But you already knew that."

"Yeah, I did."

"And how are you doing, Don?' Terry's dark eyes took on the look that told Don she was reading him again. He gritted his teeth, allowing his stiff jaw to inform Terry he wasn't interested.

She tilted her head, and played with her wedding ring, the one she still wore. "I thought so." Terry pushed back a strand of hair and in a gentler voice, continued:

"Don't forget to take care of yourself, Don, along with everyone else."

"I'll be fine," he replied gruffly."

"I know." She stepped back and watched him. "Call if you need anything."

"I'll never hear the end of it if I don't," Don muttered.

"That's right." She patted his arm. "I'll see you later."

"See you later," he echoed, and Terry disappeared into a cloud of black.

Don found comfort in sinking back down at the table. Charlie was still there – but he had a dreamy gaze on his face, studying the paper doilies on the tabletop. He could only imagine that his brother was lost in some other world, one where Charlie and his numbers reigned supreme.

It would've been nice to get lost in some other world. He had given up his life in Albuquerque a little less than a year ago to come back and help take care of his mother. What had Charlie given up? Don closed his eyes again, willing himself to keep a lid on the storm inside. They'd had that conversation last week.

* * *

_Charlie had his back to the door. He was staring at the chalkboards, thinking. Don caught a profile view. His brother looked serene. "What are you doing?" he asked. Friendly. Even if he didn't get it, he had to be civil. In the beginning, at least. Civil first, kill later._

"_I'm thinking. There's a set of variables…" Charlie turned. "You didn't come out here to talk about…this."_

"_Starting with the fact that I have no idea what you're doing, no." Don sighed. "I only passed algebra because I got your help."_

"_I know." Charlie gave the boards a longing gaze. "I'm in the middle of a breakthrough."_

_Inhale, exhale. "I was just wondering if you wanted to come and test the pie that Dad made. He thinks he's got it right, but we want another opinion. And who better to judge, Chuck, than you?"_

"_I don't think so."_

"_It's going to Mom."_

_Charlie picked up a piece of chalk and began to write furiously. "I'm busy right now."_

_Don tried again. "We're going to visit her later."_

"_Okay."_

"_You have been locked up in this damn garage for three months. take some time out of you 'busy' schedule, get your head out your ass, and go visit your mother!"_

_Don had to hand it to Charlie, he kept his temper a lot better. "I told you, I'm very close to solving this." His younger brother's voice was robotic. "Don't you understand? If I can solve this…it could be the most pivotal discovery of my career."_

_Don stared at him. Several seconds of staring and breathing passes. Don couldn't hold it in. He hit the doorframe. "Fuck, Charlie!" He couldn't look at his brother. "Forget whatever pompous, meaningless honours you'll get for solving whatever the hell you're doing." He glanced up, long enough to check if Charlie was listening. "She's dying , Charlie. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"_

_Charlie recoiled. "I can't go. Not now."_

"_Well, when are you going to go?" Don's voice came out louder than intended. He heard Alan's footsteps coming toward the garage. They stopped at where Don estimate the door was shut. He could hear the beam of thoughts from his father. _Be very careful about what you say next, Donny. _'Huh, Charlie?"_

"_I can't go," he repeated, his voice hoarse._

"

* * *

He never got a real answer to that. It was closed. They had batted around the topic for a while – Don doing the batting; Charlie working on the math problem and giving short, quick answers. Don had left the garage, stormed past Alan, and got in his SUV. He could coax confessions out of criminals, but he couldn't get a simple answer out of his brother. 

He hadn't gone to visit Margaret that afternoon. He wished he had.

The chatter of distant relatives, friends, strangers and the rest of whoever was there brought him back. So did the dulcet tones of his aunt Irene.

"Donny!" she exclaimed, drawing him up from the table and engulfing him in a hug.

"Aunt Irene," he replied, awkwardly patting her back. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine, dear," she replied. "The arthritis comes and goes, you know. I could ask the same of you, Donny. We haven't seen you in quite some time, now, have we?"

"Work," Don grunted.

"I suppose that couldn't be helped, then." Irene took the seat next to Charlie, who looked alarmed. "No, I haven't seen you in several years. Been off gallivanting all over the country, have you?"

Don gave her a winning smile. "Not really."

"Poor Maggie, she always worried about you, chasing criminals around the country." Irene gave a hearty chuckle. "She was much happier when you were in one place, although the idea of working law enforcement was always one that scared her. But you knew that. At least you came home, Donny. I'm sure Maggie was very happy about that. You always had a sense of family duty, now, didn't you?"

"Uh, yeah." Don cleared his throat. "It's good to see you, Aunt Irene, but I see a friend, so…" He patted her shoulder. "It's been nice to talk to you."

He made his way through the people. Several were doing as they always did, tell amusing stories and anecdotes about the person in question. Don was relieved to hear that no one else was calling his mother Maggie. He allowed himself his own grin, thinking about his mother.

* * *

_She was at the kitchen counter, stirring something up in a glass bowl. There was some music playing quietly. She was stirring to the beat of the music._

"_Hey, Mom," Don announced, letting the kitchen door give a hard swing. Margaret gave him a disapproving look. "Sorry. What are you making?"_

"_Strawberry shortcake. Want some whipped cream?"_

_Don narrowed his eyes. "Who's coming for dinner?"_

"_Aunt Irene."_

"_Great."_

"_Don."_

"_She never shuts up. It's like hell listening to her." He paled. 'oh, God, she's going to describe Sarah's compound fracture again, isn't she?"_

"_Sarah's ankle has been healed for months." Margaret put the bowl in the fridge. She turned back to Don, and leaned on the counter. "But Ellie just had her appendix out. I'm sure Irene was there."_

"_I guess we're not eating." Don took a strawberry from the bowl next to Margaret's elbow._

"_I guess not." Margaret watched her teenaged son eat a few more strawberries before whisking the fruit away from him._

"_Hey!"_

"_Suffer." She shrugged. "The rest of us are."_

"_Funny."_

"_I thought so," his mother replied. "Besides, you won't get called Maggie all night." She shuddered. "I hate being called Maggie."_

"_Suffer," Don responded, smirking._

_Margaret gave him a glare. Then she smiled. "How about I let you mix some shaving cream in with her strawberry shortcake to get back?"_

"_You're on." Don frowned. "You're not serious."_

"

* * *

Ah, Aunt Irene. Don shook his head. Every clan had its gossipy, insufferable old aunt, and in the Mann family, it was Irene. He had gone through many family events with her poking her nose around. Don and Charlie were let off the hook more than some of their cousins, simply because they had learned early on that Irene despised Alan and they had taken to hanging around their father when she was there. 

He pushed his way toward the house, where he hoped to find solitude. Don caught a glimpse of three, petite, curly bond heads – Margaret' younger brother, Tom's three girls. He waved at the three women before slipping into the house.

The inside of the house was a haven of serenity. Don loosened his tie. It was about ten degrees cooler in there – a welcome change from the other world he'd left at the door.

He sunk in a chair, one closest to the door. It was comfortable – comforting.

It had been about three and a half months since his mother had left for the hospice, yet things that she'd left around the house were still there. Don hadn't noticed. Between his mother and Kim, he hadn't had any time to see the house.

Kim. He hadn't given her a thought in a few days. H hadn't seen her at the funeral – except that he hadn't been expecting to. She had called last night, saying that she couldn't come. She was sorry.

_Yeah, me too._ Don stared at the end table. An old pair of his mother's reading glasses were sitting beside him. There was a scratch along on of the lenses. A white gash across the top of the left lens. For some reason, that made him sad. The first emotion to penetrate his own shield of shock that he'd allowed to build up.

He unfolded the glasses, studying them. He could figure out how to fix that scratch without harming the glasses.

Don didn't know why he was thinking of fixing them.

A whistle interrupted his thoughts. Don looked up from the table, trying to guess where the noise had come from. His spine was stiff with tension. The whistle sounded again, shriller.

Don spun around. His father's cockatiel was perched in the cage. It started to chirp.

"Shut up," Don demanded.


	2. Poison

_Many thanks for the reviews. They are appreciated!_

_And as always, thanks to AceSpade._

Chapter 2: Poison

He went back to work – two days? Three days? Maybe four? – after the funeral. He couldn't remember how long it had been. The days and nights blurred together. He gave himself a wry grin. Of course they did. He had done the same thing every day. Days of sitting in his father's house, trying to be a comforting presence but fearing he was failing; days of watching TV and not registering what was on the screen; days of not talking to Charlie. His brother was still in the garage, so their contact was limited. He didn't mind. He was too drained have it out with Charlie.

The nights had gone by even more slowly than his days. He hadn't been in his apartment for longer than five minutes. Picked up some clothes, saw that the light was blinking on his answering machine, ignored and drove back to the Craftsman he had called home for so long. The apartment still felt too new and cold to spend time in, right now. Even if he had rented it for almost a year now, and it was too lonely, for Don, who was independent by nature. So he had spent his nights, wide awake in his old room. Sometimes he thought about Kim. He hadn't called her yet.

He had figured that staying at home might help the family somehow. Instead, they were three very separate entities forcing themselves to exist in the same space. Alan Island, Charlie Island and Don Island. Each with a closed population of one.

Don still wasn't sure how many days had passed. It was indicative of a fact he wasn't willing to accept: he shouldn't be going back to work.

It sure as hell beat sitting around with people who were said to be his family, even though he doubted they were on the same planet, let alone actually related. _Rumour has it._

He set his jaw and cut a path through the office, stopping only to splash some coffee in a paper cup. He arrived at his desk to find the customary pile of reports, memos and case files, only it was thicker than usual. He had started in on the stack when Terry showed up, carrying a couple more folders and wearing an expression that could freeze water. It morphed into a look of annoyance. "Don," she sighed. "What are you doing here?"

"I work here."

Terry chewed her lip. "Don," she repeated.

He ignored her. "What do you have?"

She gave up. For now. Don watched her take a few quick strides to the desk, studying her files. "We have the usual stuff."

"Meaning?" His tone was tart.

"Meaning that -" Terry shut the file. "Don, do you really think you should be here?"

"Do I think I should be here?" he repeated. _Probably not_, he wanted to say. _Yes, I do. What do you have?_ was the other option. Terry was watching him, and he tried to keep his face still. He was a practiced liar, but she was an even better profiler. Half of his concentration was placed on trying to keep his partner from seeing the cogs turning in his mind, and keeping the emotions stuffed into whatever box he'd put them in.

What was he supposed to do? Spend the rest of his life sitting on a couch, staring into space? Just because his mother died?

_Admitting it is the first step._ Don was propelled by the urge to laugh. Terry sitting on her chair and leaning toward him, gave a smile. He looked away, trying to get a fix on his answer.

Well, no. He probably shouldn't have come back when he wasn't ready to fully focus on the job. It was stupid. Dangerous, even. He shut his eyes, attempting to expunge all of the concerns he had been carrying.

Don met Terry's concerned face. "What do you have?" he asked, his voice flat.

Terry cleared her throat. "We have a robbery. Four people shot, one a police officer, trying to calm down the scene."

"Thank you."

* * *

"Hello!" Don called into the Eppes house. "Anyone here?"

"We're right here, Don," Alan called. He was sitting in the inglenook, with a blond woman across from him. Her curls had been pinned back from her face in creative fashion. Don grinned.

"Hey, Sarah." He hugged her. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," she replied. "You look great."

"Thanks, so do you." He sat beside Alan, giving a questioning look.

"Sarah's still in town, so she decided to stop by before she takes off again." Alan chuckled. "Where to this time, Sarah?"

"In light of the fact that I had to get a real job," she replied, "I applied for one in San Diego. That's where I'm living, I guess." She cleared her throat. "How's your work, Don?"

"It's still there. New place, but it's alright."

"Good." She looked at her lap, lacing her fingers together.

Alan looked between his son and his niece. "Your mother would be furious with me, Don, if I let family show up and not have any dinner."

"I'd love to." Sarah smiled. "As long as Don won't be cooking."

"My goodness, no." Alan laughed. "I hope not." He stood up. "I should get started. I'll have to improve, Donny, since I'll be doing the cooking."

_A chink in the armour. _Don recognized the look in his father's eyes. He tried to smile. "What are you talking about, Dad? You're a great cook."

* * *

_Margaret burst into the dining room. "Your father is impossible."_

"_Yeah, so?" Don flipped a page in his textbook. He wrote a few things down, before sensing that his mother wanted to talk. He wondered why he could always sense what she wanted, even though he held back from her. He wondered about that, too. "What am I supposed to do? What's he doing?"_

"_He got it into his head that he's going to make goulash." Margaret sighed. "I don't even know if he knows what goulash is." _

"_Obviously, he knows, because he's making it," Don replied, his bored-son voice coming into play. A loud bang came from the kitchen, followed by a stream of colourful curses. _

_His mother winced. "Alan?" Margaret called. "What are you doing?" Don watched his mother go into the kitchen. The door swung shut, with her appearing back into the dining room. "My kitchen is a disaster."_

"_Hey, Dad, do you want some help?" he called. To Margaret, "Has he ever been in the kitchen?"_

"_I'm not sure," she whispered back._

"_No, Don, I've got it covered," Alan called back._

_Don pointed to the phone. "Call for takeout, Mom?"_

"_A good plan."_

"_Margaret!" Alan yelled. She ran for the door._

* * *

Sarah brushed her fingers over the surface of the water. The koi jumped from the leisurely swims and dashed to her fingertips. She pulled her hand from the water and dried them.

"Real job, huh?" Don asked.

"Yeah."

"What?"

She picked up her sketchbook. "Teacher. I actually did something in college, contrary to your beliefs."

"You never gave me much reason to believe you," Don shrugged. "You're a wild kid, Sarah."

"And who bailed me out?" she challenged. "Yeah, I thought so." She drew a few lines on her page. "How's Charlie? I never hear from him anymore."

"Charlie calls you?" don demanded.

"Used to," she clarified. "Called, wrote, e-mailed occasionally."

"Well, then." Don stared at the fish.

"What?" Sarah retorted. "He's been easier to find than you."

"Fair enough." Don looked back over at his cousin. "How are you?"

"You already asked that," she countered. "But I never asked you. How are _you_, Don?"

"What do you think, Sarah?" Inwardly, he groaned. Sarah was possibly his favourite cousin, if a bit nutty, but she was as frustrating as hell. Getting through to her was a nigh impossible task, even when she had just been privy to the event which had pretty much defined his state of mind: mourning.

"Here's what I think." She ripped a page out of her sketchbook and handed it to him. It was a quick drawing of him, sitting beside the koi pond, a profile view. He knew that was what she had been doing. She produced another drawing of him – this one, he guessed, had been drawn from a photograph. The detail and colour looked laboured over.

Sarah gave him a last drawing, of what looked like one of the ones she had drawn in her late teens. This was more like a cartoon of Don. He was holding his bat. "What's this supposed to mean?" he asked. "They're great; Sarah, but they make no sense."

"Must I interpret them for you?" she snapped. "No. You have to decide."

"I doubt I'm going to find time to interpret art," he replied. "I have work."

"And your dad, and Charlie?" Sarah questioned. "I know, I know nothing about family responsibility, I have no idea what you're going through, I'm just causing trouble."

"Wow." He stood up. "You read my mind, Sarah."

"Catch." Sarah tossed him a bottle, from the depths of her never-ending purse. He caught it, one-handed. Glen Fiddich. He glanced back at her. "You never know, Don."

Don spun the bottle in his hand. "Teacher, Sarah?"

She nodded. "Art teacher."

* * *

_Don slammed his cup on the rail of the deck. "No way."_

"_Ellie, please, side with me here." Sarah flashed a smile at her younger sister. "What are you so worried about? What's the harm? We get caught?"_

"_Or we die," Don snapped. "You're an idiot, Sarah."_

"_Oh, so I'm an idiot, because I want to have a small fire. But you're not, when you go to whatever parties you do go to." She put her hands on her hips. "You're being ridiculous. We do it all the time."_

"_You go all the time," Ellie corrected. "Darcy goes, too, when she's home from school."_

"_Yeah, see? Saint Darcy goes, too. We'll be fine. It'll be safer, because there'll be more of us. Please?"_

"_Fine." Don unclenched his jaw. "Leave the gasoline at home."_

"_We ran out, so you're lucky." Sarah swung down from her perch on the porch swing. "By the tree house, midnight. I'll be the one with the marshmallows and the matches."_

"_I'll be there. What's the best route out of your house? Jumping out the second story window?" he muttered._

"_Did I mention? You're in the tent tonight." She grinned, revelling in the look on his face. "We get to do all he jumping."_

"_Great."_

_Shuffling came from the door of the house. "What are you going to do?" Charlie asked._

_Three heads spun in his direction. "How much did you hear?" Don asked, trying to do damage control._

"_What are you going to do?" Charlie repeated._

"_He's going to be in the tent, too, Don," Sarah murmured. "Hey, Charlie, do you want to come?"_

"_Come where?" he asked warily._

"_We're gong to have a driftwood fire tonight," She explained. "Hot dogs, marshmallows – you can make s'mores if you want to."_

_Charlie lit up. "Really?"_

"_Yes, really." Don felt a flicker of annoyance. "We're going at midnight. And you can't tell Mom and Dad."_

"_I won't," his younger brother promised. "He started to look worried. "Do you know the wind for tonight?"_

"_It's fine, Charlie." Sarah tossed her hair. "I'm not bringing the gas, anyway."_

"_You were gonna use gas?" Charlie stared at her._

_Ellie jumped in. "Only if Darcy's home, right, Sarah?"_

"_Oh, yeah," Sarah agreed quickly. "Only if Darcy's here. No Darcy, no gas. It'll be great Charlie."_

* * *

"'_Morning, Don." Margaret's hands were folded in her lap and she was sitting on the porch. "Nice sleep?"_

_Don yawned. "Yeah, great." He was wiped. They had come back at five in the morning, long after the fire had burnt out._

"_How were the marshmallows?" she asked._

"_What?" He squinted at her. It was too early for this._

* * *

Don sat down in front of the TV. Sarah had left, and with her, the false sense of family. He was glad she came, but he was happier that she had left. She hadn't grown up yet.

Alan had forced Charlie out of the garage and he had come, grudgingly, made an appearance. Don had been impressed. For a long time, his father had never been able to get Charlie to do much of anything. Dinner was a milestone.

He thought about the scotch. It wasn't good to let it go to waste, right. "Do you want a drink, Dad?" he asked, already halfway to the kitchen.

"Of what?" Alan replied.

"Scotch. From Sarah."

"Of course," his father murmured. "I'll have a glass."

"Okay."

Alan accepted the glass wordlessly. Don put his own glass down on a table. His father looked old t him, for the first time. He felt some distant sadness. "I think I'm going to crash here tonight. Is that okay?"

"That's fine, Donny. You're always welcome."

"Thanks." Don looked at his glass of scotch and back to Alan. "How was your day?"

"I made a dent in that cheesecake that Mrs. Jenson across the street sent over."

"Good."

"I'm assuming you have fridge space at your apartment?"

"Just tell me what to take."

"I labelled it for you." Alan forced a chuckle. "Apparently, everyone thinks we'll starve without their casseroles."

"That's what they usually do, Dad." Don took his first drink from the glass. "They give you food."

"You should try the fudge your aunt Lily brought. It's a delicacy. I caught your brother trying to sneak the tin out to the garage."

"I'll have to get some."

"Yes." Alan sighed. "You will."

Cheers erupted from the television screen. He had no idea what had happened. "That was a good one," Alan muttered, reflexively.

The Eppes Family Players were known for their aptitude to pretend it was okay, when it mattered.


	3. Storytelling

Wow, it's been a long time since I updated. Or really sat down and wrote. Vacation does that to you. So this chapter has been written while sitting in a car, eating ice cream and generally relaxing. I apologize for any sentences that are jumbled. I think I got most of them, anyway.

A word to the wise: never eat a strawberry sundae in a moving vehicle while trying to write. You'd think I would've known that by now….

Chapter 3: Storytelling

Got up and went back to work? Check. Started to finish off the pity casseroles? Check. Stopped brooding and started to get used to getting used to the idea? Okay, put half a checkmark there. Slowly went back to old routines? Check. Called his fiancée? Less than a check. Don felt the guilt make a heavy veil over his body. "I'm calling, I'm calling," he muttered, to himself. To the empty apartment. To whatever harassing spirit was living there and had decided to bother him.

He picked up the phone, and stared a moment. Usually, he dialled the number with rapid-fire precision. Now, he had to check to make sure he actually knew it. Don flipped through the address book with one hand. He didn't have an address book.

Don sunk into his couch, squinting at the book. Of course, it was his mother's writing. She had gone through the bits of paper that he'd written names and phone numbers, addresses and birthdays, and compiled a book.

_Just when you think you can crack the shell. _Don flipped through the book a little more slowly, recognizing that her writing was shakier in some spots, and in others as perfect as it had been. It seemed that Margaret had taken extra care in writing Kim's address and number, making sure it was perfect.

The number was written on the last line of that entry. Don reached for the phone again. He dialled the number, only glancing at the paper once.

The answering machine picked up. He noticed that she had changed the message that greeted the caller. This one, he was exempt from.

* * *

"_What are you doing, Donny? Margaret looked more than exasperated, bordering on furious. _

_He swallowed, caught. From the way his mother was staring at him, he could tell there was no way out of this one. Cajoling his mother would be futile. He glanced at the cigarette in his hand. At least it was only a cigarette that Margaret had found him smoking in his room._

_A good idea would be to not puff on it, no matter how much he felt like it. Don Eppes, stress smoker. What tact should he take right now? _

"_I'm smoking a cigarette, Mom," he replied, with a touch of condescension that he couldn't hide. _Bad move.

_Margaret never stopped surprising him, though – his mother always had that element of unpredictability. Her expression changed, to an unreadable look. "I see," she murmured. "What brand?"_

_Don blinked. Margaret caught him smoking, a habit that she abhorred and all she did was ask him what brand it was. What? "Hell if I know," he muttered sullenly. "I got them from a friend."_

"_I see," she repeated. She sat on the edge of his bed. "Any other earth-shattering events you want to share?"_

"_No," he mumbled._

_She nodded. "Good." She got up. "We're having supper at seven."_

"_You're not going to say anything?" he blurted._

"_What do you want me to say?" Margaret fixed him with a probing look. "You've long since passed the point where your father and I can tell you what to do, don. I'll skip the argument, thank you very much." She turned a palm upward. "Besides, you know what I think. I just…" Margaret pressed her lips together. "I'll see you at the supper table."_

_Don took another drag of his cigarette. Guilt, imposed by parents. He figured all parents were schooled in the act of guilt-tripping. _How to Make Your Kid Feel Guilty So They'll Listen to You 101.

* * *

One Kim Hall entered her apartment, frazzled and more than completely exhausted, if that was possible. She wasn't sure, but then again, the case they'd just finished at the office had been more than exhausting also, so…sure.

The third triple homicide in eight weeks. She wandered over to her fridge, banishing all thoughts of work, and hitting the button on her answering machine. The light was blinking furiously, reminding her that she hadn't really been home in days.

She listened. Nothing too serious. A call from her mother. A hang-up. A brief message from don, telling her he was just checking in. Kim chewed a fingernail and ignored everything else. Don felt he had to check in. That wasn't good. He was forcing himself to call her? Had he met someone else? she banished the thoughts. They were engaged. that had to mean something. And this was _Don._

Kim dialled his cell number, figuring it would be the easiest way to reach him. "Hey," she said, startled that he picked up after only one ring. "It's me."

"Oh. Hey." Don adopted a different tone, far from his greeting bark. "What's up?"

"Nothing." Kim switched ears. 'I just got your message, thought I'd call."

Silence. Then, "Uh-huh."

She sighed. _This is going well._ "How are you?"

"Fine." His voice was tight. "Back at work. We just finished a case, homicide that was tied in with a fugitive."

"Us, too. I mean, we just finished a case." Kim cleared her throat. "Triple homicide, work of a serial killer."

"Tough case? You sound wiped."

"I am."

"You should get some sleep," Don told her.

"Yeah. Probably." Kim twisted a strand of hair. "How's your dad? Charlie?"

"Fine. They're doing okay." She detected a hint of protection in Don's voice. It was Don, to try and shield realities from her, himself and anyone else. She figured he wanted to hide any sort of chink in the family armour. Kim wondered if he had let himself grieve, instead of trying to take care of those who were grieving.

"Good."

"Yeah." Don coughed, a signal for Kim.

"I'm going to go get that sleep you prescribed, doctor," she announced.

He didn't even chuckle. "Okay. I'll talk to you later."

"I love you."

"Yeah. Bye." A soft click sounded, and Don had left her again. Kim placed the receiver down on her end table. She sauntered back over to the fridge, to grab a beer and the salad she had stuck there. Greek. She picked up a fork with her teeth and a bottle of salad dressing with the inside of her elbow. She made it a few feet before collapsing on the couch and dropping everything. She tossed her bottle cap in the air and caught it.

Don had sounded distant. Not really there, not really listening, not really interested or saying anything. His calls were getting to be more like that.

Honestly, who was she kidding?

This wasn't working anymore.

* * *

It smelled like breakfast. Like morning. Don shut the heavy door behind him. "Dad?" he called. "You there?"

A shorter, curly-headed, more mathematically inclined version of Don smashed into him. "Oh, sorry," Charlie muttered, barely glancing up.

"Where are you going?" Don asked, watching Charlie pick up his briefcase – which had a dangerously large hole on the side of it – and a mug of coffee.

"Work. I have to – I'll see you later. Larry's here." His brother pushed past him and out the door.

"That was quite the welcome," Don muttered. "Charlie back at work?"

"It would see so," Alan commented dryly. "He leaves at seven-thirty and come home at nine. Some nights, it's later."

"Maybe he's found a girlfriend," Don suggested. He appraised the empty plate in front of him. "So, where's my great breakfast, Dad?"

"Coming up, Donny." Alan disappeared into the kitchen and came back out, carrying a platter. "I was hoping Charlie might stay to try them."

"He doesn't like pancakes," Don muttered.

Alan looked startled. "He doesn't?"

"No."

"I thought he did."

"Not a big deal, Dad."

"I know, I know. I just thought I'd know my son's eating habits. It reminds me how far apart we've been until…" He coughed. "Well."

"Dad, I don't think anyone really knows anything about Charlie besides the math. I know I don't."

"I suppose." Alan took a drink of coffee. He looked sad. "Any good?"

Don chewed his pancake slowly. "Yeah," he lied, giving his father a smile. "Pretty good."

* * *

_Margaret rapped on his bedroom door. "Donny? Get up, and come get breakfast. We have to go Pancakes are on the table." She moved onto the next door. "Charlie? Get up, honey. We need to get going."_

_Don sat up very slowly, trying to remember why _he_ was getting up so early. It was Charlie's big day – he was getting some award for something or other. Don had no idea what. He didn't really care. He didn't even want to go, and had made that be known quite loudly at supper. He felt guilty about it later, since Charlie had to hear Don complaining about always having to attend these things._

_Well, his brother was a prodigy. He had to. It was a rule, somewhere in the Eppes family Handbook, listed among the commandments. _Thou shalt attend all pointless and pompous ceremonies that involve thy brother in some way. _He had hit a grand slam in his baseball game yesterday, the first person on the team to ever hit one and all _he _go was a word of congratulations and it was never thought of again._

_He groaned, swinging his legs out of bed. Charlie was standing in the bathroom, trying to comb out his hair. "Mom said I have to fix my hair," he complained. "I don't know how."_

"_You should get it cut and then you wouldn't have to worry about it," Don pointed out. "Get out of the bathroom, Chuck."_

"_Don't call me that." Charlie stopped trying to fix his hair. A good thing too, because Don thought it was getting worse._

_Charlie started to leave, to give his older brother the space he wanted. Don watched Charlie's pyjama pants drag on the floor. His brother was puny. "Move it, boys," Margaret called. "We're going to be late, and your pancakes are getting cold." She kept flying past them, putting on shoes as she ran. They heard a crash and a quick cuss. "Mom?" Don called._

"_I'm fine. Just get ready!"_

"_Don?" Charlie asked. Don turned, having forgotten he had stopped there._

"_Yeah?"_

"_Are you coming? Today?" Charlie looked up at him._

"_Yeah," Don replied, catching the look in Charlie's face. He _wanted_ Don to be there. He It meant something to Charlie. He had never realized that. "Yeah. I'm coming."_

_Charlie brightened. "Okay."_

"_Go get some pancakes," Don urged, checking the time. He had less than ten minutes to squeeze in a shower and each second was ticking away._

"_I don't like pancakes," Charlie said._

"_Get something else."_

"_Mom likes making them. I don't want to hurt her feelings."_

_Don nodded, getting out a towel. "You're a good kid, Chuck."_

_Charlie scowled._

"_Sorry."_

"_Okay."_

_He continued getting the bathroom ready. Charlie still stood in the doorway. "Don?" he asked again. "Will you help me with my tie later?"_

"_Yeah, sure."_

_Margaret yelled up the stairs. "For the last time, we are going to be late! Come get your breakfast!"_

"

* * *

The bullpen looked especially tense this morning. Don strode through, ending up at his desk. Terry was there, waiting and looking grim.

"'Morning," he said, by way of being polite. "What's the crisis?"

"I got here this morning," Terry began, "fairly early. I wanted a chance to plough through some of our backed-up paperwork. But Merrick decides to leave me a memo that he wants to see me in his office as soon as possible." She threw up her hands. Don decided she hadn't had her coffee yet. He also figure he shouldn't find her agitation amusing. "Anyway, I storm in there, ready to tell him off -" Don quirked an eyebrow and she countered with a glare – "and he hands me _this_." She handed him a folder. "Guess what we're doing today?"

Don stared at the closed folder. "Another case?"

"Yes." She spun her chair in a complete circle.

"Great."

"That's what I said. Of course, I also asked if anyone else could take it. I cited personal reasons. But everyone else is bogged down."

"Sounds good." Don flipped through the folder. "And we have?"

Terry pushed back her hair. "Kidnapping. Kid's been gone about three days. It was reported this morning."

"Let's get started, then." Don shuffled through the papers, finding a photo of a smiling redheaded girl.


	4. Chatty

Well. I feel so proud of myself. Two updates in less than a week. Then again, I did go away for three weeks…

The next update might be a little delayed, as well.

And I noticed how much food I write into this. Sorry if I've made any of you hungry.

Anyway. Enjoy.

Chapter 4: Chatty

_And the sign said, long-haired freaky people need not apply. ("Signs," Five Man Electrical Band)_

Charlie allowed himself the smallest smile, heading down the hall to his office. He felt, that as a whole, college professors were a strange bunch, but even so, he was more than a little confused when he took a detour into Larry's office. Charlie was shuffling through papers, trying to find something. "Larry, I need your help on -" he stopped and stared. "What are you _doing_?"

"Good morning, Charles," Larry replied, without turning around. He made a mark on the laminated reproduction of Dali's Persistence of Memory.

"Good morning," Charlie said. 'What are you doing? What does Surrealism have to do with physics?"

"Nothing at all, Charles. I am merely admiring the work."

"Yes, by defacing it." The mathematician sighed. "Seeing as you're preoccupied, I'm going to head out."

"Now, Charles," Larry began, turning to face him, "one would suggest that you are the one preoccupied, and I just merely indulging in a ridiculous and wasteful past time."

"Yeah, that's great," Charlie muttered. He shuffled the papers once more. "I must've left that at home, or in my office – it might be in another folder…" H started to wander out, still searching. Larry followed.

"Are you sure this recent tendency to misplace objects is not some form of post-traumatic stress?"

Charlie blinked. "What?"

"Some sort of reaction to the shock…"

"Relax, Larry. I'm not out of my mind yet. And please, just stop acting like I'm going to break! I'm fine."

That came out louder than it was supposed to. Larry looked taken aback. "I see," he muttered, before turning around and heading back to his office.

Unlocking the door of his own office, Charlie juggled his books, trying to put his keys away and actually get in the door.

He managed to drop everything on his desk, with minor damage. A picture frame clattered to the floor.

There was now a hairline crack across the glass. Charlie put it facedown on his desk. It was a picture of his family, and he didn't want to look at it right now. He felt guilty, with no idea why.

* * *

_Charlie raced through his homework. Don said if he was done in time, he might – _might _– might take Charlie to the ball park to throw around the ball. He'd heard Don arguing about it with Margaret last night, when they thought he was asleep, but Charlie only felt a distant twinge of sadness._

_He put down his pencil and grabbed his hat and one of Don's old ball gloves. He had pilfered it from Don's room after he'd gotten a new one. Charlie jammed the hat on his head and ran down the stairs. He stopped at the bottom step._

_Don was sitting at the table, arguing about homework. He wasn't done his math. HE wasn't ready to go yet._

* * *

_Don looked for something to throw at his brother. Charlie may have only been two, but Don felt that he deserved it. He knew Charlie was annoying, having been so for much of his first years in life – crying in the middle of the night; generally being disgusting; attracting attention, of which Don wasn't used to sharing; and now always trying to play with Don – but during this drive he was finding out just how much._

"_How much longer?" Don whined, giving up on trying to find something to throw at Charlie. Every little scrap of paper, piece of Lego, lint ball and straw wrapper was over by his little brother. He hadn't thought of re-collecting them for ammo._

_His father gritted his teeth. Margaret took the hairpin out of her mouth and caught her hair. "There's about five minutes to the ferry, Donny. After the ferry, there's an hour dive to the hotel."_

"_Yay," Don mumbled, before turning back to the window. Tree, rock, field, house, sign. The pattern continued for what seemed like forever. Don's eyes felt bleary, and he started to nod off. Until Charlie poked him. "Donny, boat!"_

_He wondered, petulantly, who had given Charlie permission to call him Donny. Still, he made an effort to sit up straighter._

_The water had that perfect sapphire shade that only arrived on the sunniest of days. Don gave the water the quickest glance before focusing on the ferry._

_It was rather unimpressive, Don thought, after having built it up in his mind. He strained for a better look, catching a glimpse of the cable anchored to the ground. A cable ferry? Don slumped, already bored. This was stupid. A five minute crossing. Even from his limited view, he could see the other shore. Meanwhile, Charlie was still trying to see. His brother's excitement made him more determined to not have fun._

_They pulled onto the ramp, and drove onto the ferry. Don felt a pang of panic, hearing the creak as they went over the ramp. What if it broke beneath their car? But it didn't and he could breathe a little easier._

"_Do you want to get out and stretch your legs, don?" Margaret asked._

"_Sure," he replied. He opened the door, just missing the car next to them._

_He walked to the side of the ferry, far enough away from the rails to avoid getting in trouble, but close enough to feel a the slight splash of water. It felt good after hours of being cooped up._

_Charlie approached, dragging Alan behind him. "There's water here, too?" he asked in a small voice._

"_We're on a ferry, duh," Don replied._

"_Don!" his father snapped. "Come on."_

"_Sorry," he muttered._

_Charlie looked back on the other side. And back in front of Don. He looked terrified. "Don't worry, Charlie, we'll be back on land soon enough," Alan said._

"_Really?" Charlie asked._

"_No, we're going to sink and die," Don replied with a child's cruelty._

* * *

Don was in his element: working and thinking of people in danger, not himself and his own problems. He leaned back, waiting for Terry to start talking. He had told her to give the debriefing. He didn't feel like giving another set of orders to a room full of techies and agents.

"Alright," Terry said over the mutterings. "We've got a kidnapping. Marianna Bennett." She stuck a picture to the board. "Sixteen years old, her father is the CEO of Markel Incorporated. She's been missing for sixty-eight hours." Mutterings swelled again. "It wasn't a concern until she didn't come home from a camping trip with cousins. Her cousins claimed she'd gone for firewood the last night they were camping and didn't come back. They were out of cell range until this morning." Terry crossed the room to gather the folders of information they already had. "I've received permission to put taps on the Bennetts' phones and e-mail. We'll need to get on that immediately. There has been one instance of contact by the kidnappers – a phone call. Don and I are going to interview the family. Everyone else, just sit tight until we have more to work with."

Terry was on her way to her desk, when Don managed to get trough the bustle to catch up with her. "We get the interview, huh?"

"Well, you're in charge," she replied, "and I figured you'd want the fun job."

"How kind of you."

"You're welcome." Terry grabbed her coat. "Shall we?"

They drove out to a ritzy neighbourhood – Don hadn't been really expecting otherwise – and were immediately jumped upon by some over-zealous security guards. Don stepped out, flashing his badge. "Yeah," he replied to the muttered apologies. "We need to speak with Mr. Bennett."

"Right this way." Don raised his eyebrows at Terry as thy were escorted through the gate, a metal detector that appeared to be part of a larger security system and a lavish entryway. "What does the CEO of a respectable company need a metal detector for?" he muttered, leaning closer to Terry.

"Entry one on the list of things that look fishy," she replied. "And you should read the paper more often."

The security guard stopped to speak with a harried-looking woman. "Mr. Bennett is in his study," the woman announced, pointing to a door directly across from them.

"Thank you," Terry said, taking the lead. She knocked, and stepped back.

"Yes?" a muffled voice called.

"Mr. Bennett, it's the FBI. We're here to talk to you about your daughter," Don answered.

The door opened, and a tall man ushered them in. "Have you found anything yet?"

"No we haven't," Terry replied. "We need to speak with you and your wife, if that's possible?"

"Yes of course, Agent…?"

"Terry Lake," Terry replied, gesturing, "And Don Eppes."

Bennett cleared his throat. "Thank you. My wife is out currently, but when she gets back…"

Don took the chair offered to him. He wasn't surprised at the man's account of the events: it was story that he could recite, after so many cases. By the polite look on Terry's face, he guessed that she was thinking the same thing. She was also leaning forward, listening for a slip up, a lie.

There's always a lie in there somewhere.

* * *

Charlie opened the fridge in despair. He was on his own tonight. It wasn't like he couldn't cook – he could, if he was on a desert island and needed to cook the fish for food. He just preferred his father's food over the stuff he might try to poison himself with. Even if Charlie could cook – his skills were in fact, questionable by others – he'd rather eat leftovers first, free up some containers. See? He wasn't just thinking about himself and his own laziness.

Alan had left a note for Charlie by the door, informing him that he's been invited to dinner at Stan's, so Charlie would be alone for the evening. Groceries had been bought the day before, so he wouldn't have to resort t eating a spoon covered in ketchup for dinner. That was a cheery thought. _Thank you, Dad._

The front door opened. "Anyone home?" Don's voice called, just loud enough for Charlie to hear from the kitchen.

"Back here!" he called back.

Don emerged into the kitchen, still in his suit. Charlie noted that his brother had no gun or badge, though. _Probably left them by the door._ "Hey, buddy," he said. "Where's the old man?"

"Out," Charlie replied shortly. Don was being a little too genial – especially after the reception he'd been getting from his older brother. "He got invited to Stan's for dinner."

"Huh." Don joined him by the fridge. "Nothing?"

"Nothing." Charlie slammed the door.

"Order a pizza?"

"Sure."

Pepperoni, bacon, sausage, green onion, green and red pepper, olives…Charlie was pretty sure Don had left out only anchovies and pineapple. Everything was on there.

Even if Charlie was no longer alone, it still seemed to be vaguely pathetic o be sitting in front of a blank TV, a half-empty box of pizza between them, drinking beer and not saying a word.

Don appeared to be stewing about something. "How was work?" Charlie ventured.

"Fine."

"Good." He wondered if he was going to have to start a conversation again. Don cleared his throat. Maybe not.

"How was CalSci?"

"Same old. Larry's studying Surrealism."

"Sounds great. Nothing like some strange art to brighten your day."

He couldn't tell if Don was being sarcastic. "Larry seems to think so."

Don nodded. He seemed to be staring at a spot on the mantelpiece. "Why did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"You know. The math. The garage. Mom."

Charlie bristled, before he realized he didn't have anything to say. "I…I don't know."

"Neither do I. I don't get it. But you still did it."

Where exactly, was Don going with this? Charlie put his stare on his brother. "What do you want?"

"Nothing." Don shrugged. "Answers. But you aren't exactly helping."

"Sorry." He wished he could take that back. He didn't have to apologize about anything, to Don.


	5. Investigation

Well. I've had another delay, since I was away again. Vacations are excellent for writing, you know? You just don't get anything posted. Anyway. Enjoy.

Chapter 5: Investigation

They had come to a silent truce. Sort of. Truce-like? Don tapped his pen on the desk. He didn't know what to call it. He also had no idea what to call the feeling that hovered in the Eppes house, or what sort of flavoured crap he'd stuck in his coffee instead of cream, or where the hell Mariana Bennett was.

"Say something," Terry commanded. "The clock is ticking, as I'm sure you've noticed."

"I'm familiar with the concept of time," he replied. "I'm thinking. About the case. Okay?"

Terry held up two fingers. "One, you're lying. And two, if I'm wrong and you're not lying, why won't you share some of these thoughts?"

"None of them are worth the oxygen."

"Great." She crossed her arms. "You've got nothing"

"Nothing," he confirmed. "And you do."

"Maybe. Could be." Terry shrugged. "We'll see."

"Helpful," he grunted.

"We need more to work with," she argued. Terry opened a desk drawer and pulled out a chocolate bar. She threw it at him. He caught it. _KitKat_. He gave her a look. "You'll nee it. It's nearing lunch."

"And we aren't having lunch because…?"

"The cousins Mariana was camping with? They just got back."

Don grabbed his coat, biting on the wrapper of the bar. Terry was already pushing the down button on the elevator door. He was definitely having a break. _All that resting involved_. He had to sprint to get to the elevator before the doors closed.

* * *

"So," Terry began, "how are you?"

"Shouldn't you be saving the questions for our victim's cousins?" Don replied. "I'm driving."

"Like that's ever stopped you from commenting before." Terry brushed back some hair. "Not great, then?"

"How am I supposed to be dong?" he snapped.

She shifted; her arm brushing his. "We're here."

He felt bad, barking at her – Terry was the closest thing he could call a friend since he got back to Los Angeles – but he feared that their conversation would enter a place he hadn't gone yet. The wall between their professional and personal relationships was non-existent at best; today he didn't feel like stirring up the water some more.

Fortunately, they were waved through the imposing gate this time, the guards having taken note of the plates. Put on their glasses, maybe, to see the government stamps. _Guess I'll have to get a different car if I want to case the place. Shame. I like this one. _He pulled up the driveway.

"Great. No hike," Terry mumbled, pushing open the door.

"Need the exercise?" he asked.

She glanced at him, startled. Then she grinned. "I'm sure I'll get it soon enough. What are we, two hours into a case?"

"Running any second now," Don assured her. He reached for the doorbell. The door was opened, his hand hovering an inch or two from the button. The housekeeper ushered hem in. He looked for Terry's reaction: her eyes were narrowed. He agreed; that was a bit strange. Either the housekeeper had been watching, or she'd thought she heard something; the whole place was a coup of paranoia.

He had to give it to them: it was warranted at the moment.

"Thank you," Terry murmured to the housekeeper, as they were escorted into a sitting room, complete with stained-glass ceiling. The patriarch of the house sat in a chair; a pair of young woman sat on a loveseat.

"I'm Agent Eppes," Don said to them, "and this is Agent Lake. We understand you were last with Mariana?"

They looked at one another, and the blond of the pair burst into tears, while the redhead put an arm around her. Don held in a sigh.

* * *

_The left one was winning. No, the right one. Now they were tied. The left one rushed ahead, leaving the right one at a standstill. Don wondered if they were like him and Charlie, these raindrops. He supposed they were slightly different – Charlie was the one rushing ahead, with his math and the Eppes Convergence, whatever that really was. Don may have been left to be the right raindrop, but he felt that it needed to be sliding back up the window, to be truly him. That's what he was doing, right? Running away._

_Running away and catching dangerous fugitives. Take away the shoot-outs, the fact that he nearly got killed five times a week and Coop was a presumptuous ass, despite being so good at his job._

_Yeah, it was exactly the same as running away from his old life back home._

_Bullshit. This was a stupider version but it offered a better excuse._

_He drummed his fingers on the plastic casing of the pay phone. Pick up, dammit. Calling LA was expensive, and even more so when he had to listen to rings of the phone. He knew, better than most, how joyful it felt to listen to seventeen rings while standing in some hellhole that called itself a gas station._

_He was only a little bitter._

_The phone rang the requisite three times – it seemed like the phone always had to ring three times in his house before anyone would think about picking it up. He could only remember one time it had been allowed one ring. At three o'clock in the morning. His mother had picked it up. Don gritted his teeth, to stop himself from remembering that time._

"_Hello?"_

"_Hi, Mom," he said._

"_Donny!"_

_Her exclamation made him feel like crap. When was the last time he called? He started counting back in his head. He stopped at nine weeks, knowing it was much longer. Great. Just great._

_He did have to work though, They'd been on…his excuses fizzled out._

"_How are you?" she pressed._

"_I'm fine. We just got a guy. It was safe and all." _Lie.

"_Oh, don." She coughed. "A cold is making its circuit through the house. I'm the last one."_

"_Hope it isn't too bad," Don replied._

"_Don't worry about it. I can handle worse than this. I raised you, didn't I?"_

"_Low blow," he kidded._

"_I have to get my shot in somewhere."_

_Don felt her sadness. She sounded wistful, instead of joking. "You did a good job, Mom."_

_She said nothing. He sighed. Distance had felt like a good idea – more so he wouldn't die or kill someone instead. He felt bad about it. Once in a while. Whenever distance decided to take its toll, one of the more expensive ones he had paid._

"_When do you think you'll be able to come home for a visit?" Margaret asked._

"_I don't know." It hung between them, unforgiving. He tried to backtrack. "I I should be getting some time off soon. We're getting a case out west, anyway. Maybe we'll get close enough to visit."_

"_That's good." Margaret cleared her throat. "I was hoping you'd be able to come for Christmas."_

_He was pretty sure that he wouldn't be able to. "I'll try, Mom."_

"_Thank you." The smile in her voice was too evident for him._

"_I'll call soon," Don said. "Bye."_

"_Love you, Donny," she replied. "Bye."_

* * *

Never make a decision at two o'clock in the morning. It's the wrong one. At least wait till the sun is and one jolt of caffeine has been consumed. Thinking, at that hour was not on Don's list of talents – he'd generally be out cold. Otherwise, he'd be a wonderful person to deal with the next day.

He found himself going against that rule in his handbook for life. Always have a few beers in you before listening to Charlie prattle on about math. Ribeye is possibly the most important food. Do not attempt to reason out a case at two o'clock in the morning.

Don muted his TV. It got worse as the hours crept away. That new reality TV kick was producing some terrible ideas.

Going over the interview with Mariana Bennett's cousins, he started a list. Mariana had decided they needed more firewood. She had taken some money to renew their fire permit. They had checked at the gate; Mariana had bought a permit. Presumably, she had gone on to get a few logs from the woodpile that the campground maintained. Then, on the way back to their lot, she vanished. Her cousins had waited for an hour, before realizing that something was wrong. They couldn't go looking for her, because it had become dark. One of them notified a worker at he camp, suggesting that Mariana had met some friends there or something like that. They hadn't noticed anyone strange, or anyone hovering around them. They had, however, noticed that Mariana had struck up an acquaintanceship with a group several lots over from them. They had been gone the next morning, but Terry had obtained the credit card, with an address in Los Angeles.

There had also bee a few people in the nearby town that Mariana had spent some time with. He had a two and a half hour drive from the edge of Los Angeles tomorrow, to go talk to these people. Terry was staying back to talk to the guy who owned the credit card. Don thought –

_Don't even try guessing. You have nothing._ He turned off the TV and started to pace.

He hated when people paced.

Don turned around and stopped. The drawings. Of course. He had spread out Sarah's drawings on the counter, and forgot about them.

They bothered him. Sarah must've had some ulterior motive. He had studied them before he got home, looking for hidden messages. That would be Sarah, even now.

She didn't hide anything, she hadn't said anything about them. Don dialled her number. He was greeted by the voice mail. "Sarah," he barked into the phone, "what do these damn pictures mean?" He hung up, and sunk into a chair.

A wry smile crossed his face. He'd stopped guessing.

* * *

"Back to the drawing board," Don announced. "I have nothing. They were clean."

"Uh-huh." Terry was immersed in the papers she was reading, her back to him.

"Good book?" Don asked. "Lots of magic, trolls, goblins and Quidditch?"

He practically hear Terry roll her eyes before she turned to him. "Sorry to disappoint," she replied, but it isn't that exciting. More records of criminal activities, associates and other general information."

"Sounds interesting."

"Oh, it is." She tapped the papers in front of her. "This is the report that out mysterious credit card holder filed about his card missing, about three weeks ago."

"So, we're looking for some other person, in the off chance they had something to do with Mariana Bennett."

"Yes." Terry twirled a pen in her hand, all business. "I'm going back to the campsite with a sketch artist to get a picture."

"Fine."

"We need to discover a motive."

"You don't say."

"Stop being a pain in the ass." Terry's voice sounded sharp. Don couldn't help grinning. Even when he was technically in charge, she had no problem telling him to go shove it. "Either I tell Merrick your family issues are unresolved and have you pulled off the case, or you give more than half a thought."

He nodded. "She's the daughter of a head of a major industrial company. Someone wants to get at Bennett. Take away his little ray of sunshine, and he'll do anything they say."

"The most likely," Terry agreed. She shuffled some papers. She cleared her throat. Don recognized all the signs of Terry's attempt to stall.

"Yeah?" he prompted.

"Well, I pulled the financial records for Markel and…well, it looks a little weird. I can't tell you why, or what, since I'm horrible at this stuff, but it looks strange and if it's fraud or something, than it would be a motive…do you know anyone who could help us out?"

He did. Don rubbed his forehead. Charlie. He was going to have to ask Charlie. He sighed. _The case is more important. Each minute…_ "He'll need to get clearance. That could take -"

"I can call in some favours," Terry said.

That's what he was afraid of.

Dammit. Charlie. Working with him. _It's_ _only a consult_. Still, he felt a stab of apprehension.


	6. Insensitive

Ah, delay. School's starting soon, so I can't say these will get any faster, but I can say they won't get slower. Thanks for bearing with me.

Chapter 6: Insensitive

The phone rang. Again. Again. The machine beeped. "Don? I know you're there. Pick up. Say something. Don?" A rush of static. "There's nothing special about those pictures, okay? I just thought you'd like them. I have a lot of drawings of you, I'm not sure why…I'm not trying to delve into your mind and get you to talk – I'm not a shrink. The sketches mean nothing. Forget them.

"Don, if you ever do need to talk, I'm still here. Of course, if you ever need someone to drink with, I'm still here. Bye. I miss you." Sarah's gentle click, and another beep.

He stood frozen in the doorway, jacket in one hand, the other on the doorknob. He glanced back at the counter, where the sketches still lay. He took a few strides to the counter and snatched the last sketch. He made creases across the pencil, and stuffed it into his pocket. "They mean something, Sarah."

* * *

"Find Charlie?" Terry asked, stirring her coffee.

"He was in class," Don replied, gruffly. "I'll catch him later."

"She's been missing for almost five days."

"I know."

"They've contacted us twice, reminding us they have her." She rolled her eyes. "What could they possibly want?"

"Maybe they don't want something conventional. It could be just a power trip. They have the kid, he'll do what they want him to do. They get their way over some big-time CEO."

"Power trip? It doesn't fit with the financial thing, unless you're thinking blackmail," Terry replied. She watched him take a bite of pizza. "How old is that?"

"Dunno." Don took another bite.

"You picked that up at your apartment, it's probably a thousand years old," she muttered, taking another swig of coffee.

"Who's the kid in there?"

"Oh, him." Terry glanced back at the one way glass. Her expression looked peaceful, almost relaxed. "That's our credit card thief."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." She smiled. "Jake Parker. Fifteen years old, parents killed in a car crash, was high when we picked him up. Lucky for us, he's coming out of it. He lives in a shelter, when it's cold out. If only he had a fairy godmother to save him."

"Since he's adding 'suspect in kidnapping case,' to his resume, I think he'll need it."

"Okay." Terry jumped on top of the table, next to a monitor. Don ignored her. The kid was still there, sitting, fidgeting, looking around. "We need Charlie."

"I'll go back to the house and get him," Don replied.

"Fine." She tilted her head, giving him a strange look.

"What?"

"Nothing. Go. I've got this covered."

"You do realize, I'm supposed to give the orders, Lake?"

"I heard." She smirked, and jumped off the desk. He reached for the last of his pizza.

* * *

He wasn't surprised to find the garage lit up at the Eppes house. He also wasn't surprised to find some sort of delicious smell coming from the kitchen. Alan had taken to cooking all the time, and in vast quantities. He kept calling Don over to have some food, but Don kept declining. He was supposed to be concentrating on his case. Still, Alan kept cooking enough to feed a small country. But if it was his form of therapy, who was Don to argue?

He'd already messed with Charlie's form of therapy, math, and that had ended badly. They had argued like eight year olds and ate pizza in silence together. Leaving it alone now would be a good idea.

"What are you making, Dad?" he called.

"Don?" The muffled voice sounded shocked. He felt a stab of guilt. He should've come by earlier.

"Hey, Dad," he replied.

"Smelled the food fro the office?" Alan said, entering the room.

"Something like that," Don replied. He looked around. "Charlie's in the garage, right?"

"Could you tell him supper's ready?" Alan asked. "Fiddleheads, rice and steak."

"Fiddleheads? You mean ferns?"

"Considered a treat in some places, Donny."

"Sure, Dad."

The garage was filled with Charlie's chalkboards and papers, but Charlie was sitting in the darkest corner, far away from anything that would mean something to him. Items had started to pile up in front of the boards: old toys, books, boxes of schoolwork – Alan had started to clean the house. Don stopped short of actually entering the garage. "Dad wants you to come in for supper."

"I'll be in." Charlie was staring at his partially obscured chalkboards. Don waited. He brother made no moves. "So, you're still here. Why?"

"I need to ask you a favour, buddy." Don sat in a chair, still near the door. He laced his fingers together. His voice sounded strained. Charlie would guess from don's overall appearance he was annoyed at having to share a room with Charlie. He had an air of nervousness, but Charlie assumed he was projecting. Something about Don made him nervous now. He didn't really want to listen, but he nodded, letting don continue. "We've hit a snag. In a kidnapping case." Don cleared his throat. "Terry thinks that the kidnapping may have something to do with a set of financial records we have. The girl's father is head of Markel."

"You think whoever took her is getting revenge for whatever is in those records?" Charlie asked.

"Yeah, and since Terry and I don't get it…"

Charlie felt some dull rage. Don expected help, even now. Maybe Charlie was the only one fighting. Brood or forget, that was his brother's mode. He felt an eagerness too, that old childhood feeling of joy at being allowed in Don's secret world. "Sure. I'll take a look at it."

"Do you mind coming back to the office now?" Don looked relieved. He got his high from solving, gathering evidence and understanding it.

"Alright." Charlie pulled himself out of his chair. Don was already gone, and Charlie had no rush once he'd left. The kidnapping felt distant from him. He stopped in front of his chalkboard. These problems seemed foreign to him. He picked up the piece of chalk, squeezed it. His hand was drawn to the board. The clacking was his music. But he dropped the piece and followed Don. He hated that he could be so easily swayed.

* * *

_Don threw down his pencil. He glared at Charlie, who was humming and writing away. His brother was already years ahead of him in school. But Don was supposed to be the older brother. He was supposed to have an edge of superiority over Charlie._

_He felt inferior, to tell the truth. He was the shadow boy, while Charlie was the shining star of the household._

_Right now, he was frustrated. He couldn't do long division. It didn't make any sense. And who cared what 14556 divided by 12 was? Did it matter? He beamed these thoughts at his brother, knowing that if complained about his math homework, Charlie would spout off on how amazing numbers were and Margaret would get mad at him. If he wasn't careful, he'd be grounded._

_But he had to get this done somehow. He was supposed to go pitch at the ball field. He groaned. Margaret looked up from her coupon clipping – sharply, he noticed – and studied his face. "Donny," she said, "do you want some help?"_

"_No," he snapped._

"_Don."_

"_Yes." He picked up his pencil again. "Please?"_

_Margaret abandoned her scissors and started to explain the math. Her voice was comforting, and she coached him through his problems. Don felt a blossom of pride over his newfound knowledge. He didn't think it was hard anymore. he'd be able to go pitch, after all._

_He felt a stare penetrate his happiness. Charlie had abandoned his genius work, and was watching Don puzzle out his homework. Charlie was lost, in a world of math. Don snuck a look at the work on Charlie's page. He didn't know what it was. It seemed to be written in a new kind of language. Don suspected that even Alan and Margaret didn't understand what Charlie was doing._

_He remembered the day they'd found out Charlie was special. It had been cool then._

_He hated that Charlie got it and he didn't._

"

* * *

Terry was glaring at the monitors, eyeing down the kid. Don stood beside her. "So?"

She jumped, her head swinging around to glare at him. "Hey, Don." She looked past him "Hello, Charlie."

"Hey," Charlie said, weakly.

"Robin Hood won't talk," she announced.

"How come?"

She shrugged. "He doesn't trust us."

"We have him in an interrogation room. He's not supposed to trust us."

"He's still not saying anything."

Don sighed, kneading his temples. "I'll take the interview. You get Charlie the records."

"Sure, _boss_." Terry smiled encouragingly at Charlie. "The records are in the war room. There'll be plenty of space to work." He nodded, and followed her, an obedient child. Charlie looked breakable inside the bleakness of the FBI office. Don felt an instinct for protection. He pushed it down. Charlie would be fine.

The kid sat up as soon as Don entered the room. "Jake Parker," he said. The kid nodded. Don narrowed his eyes. "It wasn't a question."

Jake ducked his head. His fingers tapped on the table. "Do you mind?" Don asked. He sat across from him. "You stole a credit card from a man here in Los Angeles. You took some friends to a campground, with a stolen vehicle, correct?"

"Yeah," Jake nodded. "Didn't think the FBI was into that."

Don glared. "We're not. But you did have a campsite next to three girls."

"So?"

"One of these girls. Mariana. Did you know her?"

"We hung out while we were there." He shrugged. "Hot girl. Rich. We weren't going to be hanging out later."

"You know what happened to her, Jake?"

"Something happened?"

Don studied his face. The kid looked curious. "Yeah, something happened. She was kidnapped."

"Kidnapped? Like someone took her?"

"Yes." Don rolled his eyes. _Not the sharpest tool in the shed_. "The funny thing is, the night she went missing, you also ditched the campground."

"You think I took her?" Jake laughed, hollowly. "Yeah, right. I kidnapped some girl. Where would I take her? What could I get?"

"We want to know if you saw anyone near their campsite."

Jake shrugged, his eyes darting. "Nobody. They had some friends over one night, but nothing later. There was a ranger near the site. He was carrying some wood."

"Okay." Don got up.

"Wait – that's it?" Jake looked fearful, like Don was going to slap some cuffs on him.

"That's it. I'll have a sketch artist in here for you to describe the ranger, and then you'll be taken to a holding facility."

"Because I took the card."

"Something like that." Don stopped at the door. "Why wouldn't you talk to Agent Lake?"

"The girl?" Jake smiled. "She doesn't trust me."

Don nodded. "There's a lot of that going around." He pushed open the door.

Terry was waiting, her ankles crossed over one another, her arms folded. "We need an artist."

"I'll get one." She inclined her head at the glass. "That was easier for you."

"Yeah." Don put down the file. "Thinks you don't trust him."

"I don't. Neither do you." She pursed her lips. "Interesting."

* * *

He stopped by the apartment later. The mail lay on the counter where he'd left it. Four envelopes and a flier for lawn mowing. On was a bill. Another was from Kim. Don stopped at that one and weighed it in his hand. He hadn't heard from her since the phone call. His instincts told him to dread whatever was inside. Kim had never been much of a writer.

It was thicker than he expected, wearing two stamps, hand-addressed with shaky handwriting. Don examined the envelope under light. Thee were raised bubbles on the paper. He ripped it open, trying not to think about the look of the envelope anymore.

A ring tumbled into his hand. Gold, with a diamond. A minimalist kind of piece. Kim hadn't been on for fancy jewellery. He turned it over, rubbing the band. He remembered his initial feelings about the ring – joy, pride, love, anticipation. He remembered the look on Kim's face.

Don tossed the envelope, still containing a letter, written on flowered paper, away. She 'd pulled out all the stops to end this.

He didn't really want to read her explanations. He knew why she had broken it off. He also didn't know why. He felt loss.

Don made a fist around the ring. He opened it again, feeling the stone cut into his hand. He tossed it across the room. He listened to it roll along the floor. Then he left, not wanting to stew alone.


	7. Strangers

Wow, I think my delays are getting shorter…or is that just me? Thanks for the reviews, guys – I always appreciate them.

Thanks to AceSpade for Jake – sorry if it isn't as you imagined…Jake has been helpful in other ways.

Chapter 7: Strangers

_Don flicked on the TV, searching for something to watch. Hockey season was in full swing…and he couldn't remember the last time he had sat down and just watched a game, for pure pleasure. _

_That may have been detrimental to his mental health._

_Margaret was buzzing around, and even if he didn't want to be at home now or possibly ever, he knew that his mother was on cloud nine. He couldn't destroy that happiness._

_Charlie was coming home today._

_A nice family dinner. The thought made him want to retch. All of them, at the same table…Margaret the only one who was really happy; Alan, glowering because Don was still with the FBI; Charlie glowering because Margaret had needled him there. Don wasn't sure what he was going to be doing, but he suspected that it would be along the lines of trying to keep peace. Or being monosyllabic._

_Oh, yes, he couldn't wait till his brother stuck his curly-topped head through the door, full of accomplishments. _

_He wasn't even sure where Charlie was coming from. His mother had mentioned something about Charlie in England, but Don hadn't been listening._

_Tuning out any Charlie-speak was easy for him._

"_Mom," he said, as Margaret rushed past him for the tenth time, "do you want any help?"_

"_No, Donny, you watch the game. Who's winning?"_

_Don swore he saw dust clouds behind her. "You sure you don't want any help?"_

"_With cooking? From you?" She laughed. "Weren't you the first person to fail Home Ec in high school?"_

"_I didn't fail Home Ec," he replied. "I just didn't do so great."_

"_And that's why I don't need you help cooking, Donny," she said._

"_I can chop stuff."_

_Margaret made a face. "Right, Donny."_

"_Mom."_

"_It's fine. You relax. Watch the game. Drink a beer." She pointed to the TV. "Now."_

"_Yes, ma'am." He grinned. As much as he wanted to be elsewhere, his mother could make him laugh._

_A tentative knock sounded at the door. "I'll get it," Don shouted, causing footsteps to halt on the stairs._

_He swallowed. He opened the door. A frazzled-looking Charlie stood there. His eye twitched. "Don," he said._

"_Come in," Don replied. Formal. Stilted. He felt a rush of annoyance, threatening to break his mask._

_Charlie looked out of place inside the warm haven of the house. "Mom1" Don yelled, hoping for a reprieve, "Charlie's here!"_

"_Oh, Charlie!" Margaret hugged him. "Look at you!"_

"_Hi, Mom," he said, his eyes darting. "Where's Dad?"_

"_Upstairs," Don interjected._

_He suspected Alan was upstairs, because he didn't really want to talk to Don right now. Mostly because they had never really enjoyed The Talk about Don's career yet._

_It had only been four years or so, since he'd announced he was going to Quantico. Why rush it?_

_He hated that he was feeling out of place in his own house, but, it wasn't entirely his fault. He narrowed his eyes at Charlie._

_Don was that eight year old again._

_He forced a smile on, as Charlie was released by Margaret. He opened his mouth – _

* * *

"Unbelievable," Don muttered. He rubbed his eyes. "Unbelievable." 

"Not so unbelievable," Terry mused. "In fact, believable, Eppes." She leaned on the desk. "Wake up," she sang.

"It's the middle of the night," he snapped. "I've had fifteen cups of coffee. We've got no ultimatum from the kidnappers yet. Instead, we've got a teenager who could have important information. We've also got a bad sketch of some guy who _might_ be involved."

"You've covered everything except the FBI agent who won't stop whining," Terry shot back. She ran a hand through her hair, taking a few steps away from him.

He recognized the look on her face. "I'll go talk to the kid again," he announced.

"Okay." Terry chewed her lip. "Since he'll talk only to you. Has Charlie got anywhere with those records yet?"

Don shrugged. "Who knows? He could be asleep."

"Yeah, right." She shot a look at him. "He was interested by the records. Besides, who could sleep in here, anyway?"

Charlie's head was visible from where they sat. Don looked away. "I'm going to go."

"Sure. I'll run the sketch," she replied, sitting up straight again.

"Sounds good." Don looked at Charlie. He was bent over his work – Don could see into the war room much better standing – and was in his math world, again.

* * *

As soon as the rain began its torrential downfall, it stopped. Don drove on, blinking as the street lights hit the pavement. The glow was reminiscent of a horror movie. 

It was an eerie night. He pulled into the parking lot of the holding facility. They hadn't been able to put him in their own holding facility – that did not speak well. He grimaced, feeling the wet breeze on his face.

Jake was sitting in an interview room, drumming his fingers on the table. "Yeah?" he demanded. "I don't know anything."

"Sure." Don sat down. "I believe you."

Jake snorted. "Yeah, right. And I'm gonna walk out of here free with you, right?"

"We need a better sketch, Jake."

"I told you what he looked like."

Don raised an eyebrow. He waited. Jake looked away, continuing to tap his fingers. "I don't know anything," Jake repeated.

"I know," Don said.

The kid shifted in his seat, the movement almost imperceptible. He snuck a look at Don, then stared back the ground again. He stopped tapping his fingers and moved onto his foot. "The guy talked to me," he half-whispered.

Don nodded, his eyes trained on Jake.

"He said…he said that something was going to happen to her. He said he'd pay me if I met her at the woodlot at the campground. He told me to take her for a walk."

"And?" Don prompted.

Jake looked terrified. "He took her when I walked ahead a little. She was being slow, so I ran ahead to make her scared. She didn't come. I looked for her."

"Did you get paid?"

"No." Jake dropped his gaze, twisting a loose thread in his hand. "I didn't know what was happening, so we split."

"You want to give us better description of the guy?"

Jake nodded, his head shrinking into the folds of his sweatshirt.

"You'll have to come back to the office."

Don watched as a guard cuffed Jake, pushing him ahead. He was reminded of Charlie, back at the office, writing away. Lost and small in the greyness.

* * *

"Who's that?" Charlie asked. 

Terry gave him a look. "Jake, our credit card felon, from earlier? He was here when you arrived?"

"Oh," Charlie said. His brother appeared in the doorway, dampened by the rain that had just started.

"And you brought him here, because…?" Terry called out to Don.

"Better sketch."

Terry wrinkled her nose. "So he was lying before."

"Yeah," Don replied.

"Great. I never came up with anyone anyway." Terry hugged her knees, before looking back at Charlie. "Anything?"

"There was something going on," Charlie muttered.

Don shook his head. "Don't bother."

"Okay." She crossed the room. "Zone of concentration?"

"Something like that," Don admitted.

"Anyway, what did you get?"

"He was supposed to be paid off, but our mystery guy took Mariana and left."

"Hmm." Terry leaned her chin on her arm. "Anything else?"

"He left because he was scared." Don watched through the glass. "This one better work."

She moved her hand in a so-so motion. "It could. But we have Charlie and the records now."

"Yeah."

"So…" She gave him a sideways glance. "You're quiet."

"I'm thinking."

"So you keep telling me." Terry was looking straight ahead again, the tip of her nose red, her hair pushed away. "Never about what."

"About finding this girl," Don said.

"Of course."

Her light tone bothered him. Terry was that way – caring, but determined to keep her objectivity first. He wished she would be emotional. He was a train wreck, next to her stoicism. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," she said, as cool as ever. "Nothing." She nodded at the glass. "Sketch's done."

"Great." He glanced back at Terry. She had a smile on her face. He withheld a remark.

* * *

Jake was still as Don entered. His eyes were wide, following Don's steps. The artist exited, and Jake looked like he was no longer breathing. Don sat down. "Relax."

"What?" Jake asked.

_Startled out of his fear._ "Anything else you should be telling us about Mariana's disappearance?"

"No."

"Good." Don gave him a smile – the cold, dangerous kind. "You'll be escorted back."

"Okay." Jake swallowed. Don watched him. He was thoroughly cowed – interesting, considering nothing had happened that would involve great fear.

"Okay," Don echoed. He scooped up the sketch. "A guard should be in."

"Uh…"

"Yeah?"

"What happened to you?"

Don stared. "What?"

"Nothing," Jake muttered. "You ask the questions."

"Yeah, I do." Don leaned on the table. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," Jake repeated. "Can I go?"

"Yeah, you can." Don let the guard in.

The glint of the cuffs blinded Don momentarily. Jake shut his eyes, in the flash of light and shuffled out of the room. Don frowned.

He was hearing, but not understanding.

* * *

Charlie had that look on his face, the one that proclaimed he had solved a puzzle that no one else could. The one that screamed satisfaction and happiness, the kind of joy a little kid got on Christmas or birthdays. 

Don remembered that Charlie had never really gotten excited on his birthday. He had always viewed it with distant interest, like an experiment. It was everyone else who was excited.

Now, Charlie was glowing with pride. He had an answer for them, a clue in their puzzle. He was ready to impress the big brother. Don leaned his chair back, and waited. Terry glided in, her face expectant. "I found evidence of fraud," Charlie announced.

"Great," Terry said. "That's good."

"Charlie, can you explain that to us?" Don asked. He rubbed his wrist, trying to ease the pressure of his watch. Time was flying by, going too fast, and he was afraid they couldn't find Mariana soon enough.

"I can." Charlie grinned.

"Okay…why don't you?" Don said.

Charlie took a deep breath. "The secret lies in the salaries."

"Okay...Charlie, we need something," Don chided.

"Read these lines here," Charlie ordered, ponting at the page.

"Okay, Charlie, I don't understand what that means," Terry said, her hair brushing the paper as she peered at it.

"It means there's something very off about Markel," Charlie said, euphoric. "There's no way all these people have these kinds of salaries."

"Come on," Don muttered.

"Someone found out that they have fake employees," Charlie finished. "They took Mariana because of that."

Don grinned; it was good news. "Thanks, Charlie."

Charlie smiled back, and Don couldn't help but notice how happy he was. Happy that Don _appreciated_ what he had done.

_Guilt_. It crawled back up, familiar, and Don allowed it to. It came hand in hand with a rush of brotherly affection for Charlie.


	8. Polish

I struggled with this chapter for a long time. Because I wanted it to be a certain way. So. I'm not sure if I quite caught what I wanted, but I like it anyway. Enjoy. Feedback is appreciated. Thanks, everyone.

Chapter 8: Polish

Don squinted at the monitor. He could swear it was getting blurrier. It _was_ getting blurrier. He blinked.

Terry clapped her hands together, and he cringed. "Anything?" she pressed.

"Nothing," he countered. "You?"

"Maybe." She leaned back in, clicking her mouse vigorously. "Could be. I'm checking into that."

"Good." He stared at the screen again. He felt like he was back in high school, reading some pathetic attempt at a book. Nothing was getting through to him. Employee lists, salary charts, tabs on anyone who had recently been fired by Markel…it was simplistic.

Read lists, find guy.

In Tarzan speak, it was even more so.

Still…Don was trying to keep up and he was running short.

Uncertainty was creeping up.

And he was supposed to be sure of himself.

He looked away from the screen, before snapping back for a peek. That was better. He leaned forward, and started reading.

* * *

"Anything? Anyone?" Terry asked.

"That's annoying after about forty times," Don muttered, still on page four. He was stuck. His efforts were for naught. He was having _To Kill a Mockingbird _flashbacks.

Wow, he really hated that book.

"Sorry," Terry muttered. She tapped her foot, in an indiscernible pattern, before sighing. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he muttered, looking at her, rubbing his eyes. "This is taking forever."

"Yeah," Terry replied, already drifting back to her monitor. "Faster, Eppes!"

"I'm going, I'm going," he said, scrolling through the page. One more down, another hundred left.

"Great," Terry mumbled.

Don felt aching around his shoulders. He had a habit of leaning forward, pressing against the screen – maybe if he was closer to the information, it would seep into his skull? He would find what he was looking for faster?

"Anything?" he asked.

She glared. "_No_."

He grinned. "Annoying, right?"

"Yes," Terry admitted. He liked that she was allowing herself to be dragged into his game, a diversion to distract them from the task at hand.

"Glad you agree," he retorted.

"Just look," she said wearily.

"I'm looking."

"Stop it."

"Stop replying."

"You know you get irritable doing this, right?"

"You know you get irritating doing this, right?" Don stared at the screen. One Keith Richard. _Hmmm_.

"You know we sound like siblings, right?"

"I spend more time with you than with my sibling."

"Don…" Terry looked pained.

"Don't," he said.

"Okay." She crossed her arms. "You have something?"

"Psychic, huh?" he asked.

"I can tell when you've got something more interesting to do than driving me crazy," she said.

"Yeah, well." Don nodded at the screen. "Want to check this guy out?"

Terry wheeled over to him. Her eyes scanned the screen, a slow smile overtaking her bleak expression. "Oh, yes," she breathed.

* * *

"And…why do they always leave the house like this?" Terry whispered, pushing open the door. Door ajar, distinctly rushed feel about the house, obvious ransacking.

"Because they've watched way too many movies," Don replied. He headed for the living room. "Clear."

"Clear!" Terry called. here!" he yelled. "Check it out."

Chair, beside a fireplace. Slashed ropes, on the floor. Small pool of blood. Don reached down and touched it. Dry. Not enough for a serious injury. "I think we know who has her."

"Unless he's got another kidnapee," Terry agreed. "Either way, it's not looking too good."

"No," Don replied. He reached for his phone. "And he better contact us soon, or that girl is going to die."

* * *

Don leaned his head in his hands. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, waiting for the blood results. He was drained. He was alone with his thoughts, an action that he had been avoiding.

Perhaps it was being alone with his thoughts in an office full of people that bothered him more than simply being alone.

Don felt that a person could be lonelier in a room of people than in solitude.

Or maybe it was the exhaustion talking.

He kneaded his forehead, helping along the pain. Throbbing, excruciating pain – the kind that doesn't really leave; it lies in wait, hoping to pounce again.

"It's her," Terry said, placing the sheet of paper in front of him. She appeared out of nowhere, an angel bearing the good news. Don sat up.

"Great," he said, scanning the test. "We know who we're looking for."

"I guess." Terry sat down across from him. "Are you okay?"

"Sure, sure," Don waved her off. "Tired, like we all are."

"Of course," she said.

He narrowed his eyes. Her concern was a sign of something he didn't want to face.

* * *

He was fitful. He was focused and he was distracted. He was awake and he was asleep. Terry told him to get lost for a few hours, she would be fine.

It was funny how they constantly switched roles: friends, to partners, to a boss and employee, to worried parents. There was something motherly in Terry's chastisement. A layer of protection.

He drove around, skulking the streets. It was the early morning lull, in the few (semi) quiet hours of LA. He thought it was almost refreshing.

He parked, and pulled the keys out of the ignition. He was in front of the juvie holding facility. Jake. He shut his eyes. _"What happened to you?"_

What, indeed?

The blood on the floor. The crying cousins. A smiling, blond teenager. Charlie's euphoria at getting an answer. Bickering with Terry. Kim, sending the ring back. His father, sitting alone in the living room. Sarah, giving him the sketches. His mother, pale and weak in a hospital bed.

Don rested his head on the steering wheel. He let it in.

* * *

"_Stop squirming, Don," Margaret warned him. She dabbed at the cut, and he wiggled away. The blood dripped onto the floor. It was a large gash; he'd fallen out of the tree in the park. He hadn't fallen far, but he had hit an old branch, dead and splintered. The gash spanned his entire calf. It was starting to bruise, too – he could feel more pain than just the sting of sensitive skin, open to the air. _

"_Sorry," he muttered._

"_Just sit still, Donny," Alan said. Don looked over at his father, who was reading the newspaper._

"_Okay," he said, scooting back towards his mother. Margaret sighed, staring at her floor._

"_Oh, Don," she murmured. "You've got to stop."_

"_Stop what?" he demanded sullenly._

"_Bleeding on my floor, for starters." His mother leaned back, and reached for bandages. "Doing stupid things because you can. You're setting a bad example for Charlie."_

_Don watched Charlie a moment – his little brother was sitting at the kitchen table, writing. Again. Or still. "He's fine," he said. "Besides, everyone else was climbing."_

"_Don…" Margaret sighed. She tried to put some gauze on part of the gash, and jarred his leg. Blood started seeping out again. Don bit his tongue. "Dammit!" she hissed. "Alan?"_

"_What do you need?" he asked._

"_Here," she said, thrusting the wet cloth at him. "I need more…" She stood up and bolted for the stairs. Alan knelt on the floor, wiping Don's leg._

_The noise had alerted Charlie, who slid out of his chair and watched Don. "That's a lot of blood,' he observed. "Does it hurt?"_

"_No," Don said. _

"_Oh," Charlie replied._

"_It doesn't hurt, Don?" Alan asked._

"_No," he repeated._

"_It's okay to admit if something hurts, Don," Alan said. _

* * *

A folded square of paper was pressing into his side, where his seatbelt was. He pulled out the sketch. Sarah's pencil drawing was simple, and messy – but it was him all the same. Don as he was that day. Sad, resistant, alone. He thought of her other sketches of him. He had been her favourite subject for a while. Paintings, sketches, cartoons, portraits….

He traced each line with his finger, noticing that she had never erased any mark she had made on the page. She was sure of him, sure of the way he was. He missed Sarah.

He dialled the phone. "Hello?"

"Hey, Sarah."

"Don?"

"I know what they're for now," he said.

She laughed. "I figured you would."

"Yeah?"

"You and Charlie, always need to find your answers."

Don thought about that for a moment. Maybe Sarah had seen something in them he had ignored. "I guess."

"How is Charlie?" she asked.

"He's fine," was Don's automatic answer. "He helped me on a case."

"Really?" Sarah asked.

"Really," he said.

"Don," she began, "that's good. That's so good."

Charlie's face, unbidden, floated up. It was the snapshot of excitement Don had saved of his brother. He remembered Charlie's sheer joy. "Yeah, it is."

* * *

_Margaret squeezed his hand. He looked away. She wasn't his mother. His mother was at home, cooking, or reading a book. She was waiting for him to show up when he said he would._

_His mother was not here. He wasn't here. His father wasn't here. _

_Charlie was at home, in the garage. Was it possible that he was the only one where he supposed to be?_

* * *

He sat in his SUV for what seemed like hours. He remembered. He stared straight ahead and watched as his thoughts played out on his mind's stage, the audience silent. He was silent.

He let himself stew this time, and he let himself try to pick up the pieces. He felt broken. He felt sad, unbelievably so.

"_It's okay to cry, too."_

He sighed. He never thought it was. There was some rule ingrained in his mind that he should never cry.

He could be astoundingly old-fashioned.

Don wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel, trying to gain control again.

But he couldn't, so he didn't try any more.

* * *

Terry phoned him later that night. "Eppes," he said slowly, regretfully.

"Hey," she said. "We have something. We know where Mariana is. We're going to go get her."

"I'll be right there."

"Don?" she asked. "Are you okay?"

He looked over at Alan and Charlie, arguing over the Scrabble board. Charlie was convinced he had spelt the word right. Alan was not.

Don was winning. He smiled at the scene, and turned away. "Yeah, I think I might be okay," he replied. "I'll be there."

"Okay," she said. "See you soon."

He shut the cell phone. "I have to go,' he announced. "We found her."

"Yeah?" Charlie asked. "Really?"

"Yeah," he said. "I'll see you later." He started for the door, and stopped. "And Chuck, you're wrong."

"Yeah? Yeah, well -"

Don shut the door. "Yeah," he said.

He fingered the sketch, still in his pocket. His hand came in contact with another piece of paper; one he hadn't known was there. He pulled it out.

A sketch of Margaret. He flipped it over.

_I thought you wanted this one, too. Love, Sarah._

He shook his head. She was better at sneaking around than he figured.

He peered at it in the light by the door. His mother was smiling back at him, and he pressed it to his chest. This one, he liked the most.

* * *

I'll be honest. I had no idea this was going to be the end. But I think this is far as I'll go. Thanks for reading. 


End file.
